


a short play about returns

by Macremae



Category: Pacific Rim (Movies)
Genre: Character Study, Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Hanukkah, M/M, Mind Control Aftermath & Recovery, Past Abuse, Post-Movie: Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018)
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-10
Updated: 2020-12-10
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:01:31
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,282
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27997935
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Macremae/pseuds/Macremae
Summary: Newt inclines his head to indicate agreement. “Yeah. I think I’m still stuck in the atonement phase.”Hermann raises an eyebrow. “Which one? There’s a variety.”“I dunno,” he shrugs. “We went to service last Saturday, and I think I felt like I was talking to someone.” Newt sighs, running his clean hand through his hair. “But how do you even apologize to God for letting aliens into your brain that tried to destroy the world?”Tshuva (תשובה): literally "to return". An element of atoning for sin in Judaism. Repentance; one single part of the process.
Relationships: Newton Geiszler/Hermann Gottlieb
Comments: 7
Kudos: 38





	a short play about returns

**Author's Note:**

> chag chanukah sameach everyone!!! this year for my annual newmann chanukah fic, i wanted to try out a new writing style that i hope gels well with the theme of tshuva; it's honestly more of a yom kippur thing in terms of Things Assigned to Holidays (chanukah not even being a big one) but it fits well with post-uprising and it's my special interest so i get to pick the tenants of judaism i assign to it. ty to evie for the beta, and if you'd like to learn a little more, this thread has a great explanation: https://twitter.com/TheRaDR/status/909480049690193920

This is not supposed to make sense if you don’t understand the story. You are welcome to complain, of course. It’s tradition.

There is a man. There is another man. It is December twenty-first, 2036, and they are trying to make kugel. Neither of them are particularly good at the dish. Both of them find this endearing in the other.

Setting: a home, a kitchen, a stove, a pot of water boiling to cook al dente. The walls are yellow, cabinets white, hand towels dark green and checkered blue. The colors black and red do not appear anywhere in the room. A ceramic sponge holder in the shape of a frog, mouth open, rests by the sink. Most of the longer kitchen utensils (whisk, tongs, cake spoons) are kept in a large mason jar painted with flowers and signed in various messy scrawls. Late afternoon sunlight puddles on the dark wood floor. 

The first man speaks. His name is Newt. “How long did it take you to figure out how to pronounce Worcestershire?” 

Costume: Newt Gottlieb, forty-six, hair in an air-drying state of fluffiness pulled up into a messy bun. Fawn-brown streaked with grey. You can’t tell what color his eyes are, but they reflect light like a cat’s in total darkness. His clothing is just on the side of oversized, comfortable and nonthreatening, as if it was chosen for a reason other than smart appearance. Warm, dark colors with a soft silhouette. His sleeves are rolled up to mid-forearm, skin covered in tattoos that are clearly well cared for. There is a bright gold band around his finger, another tattoo just peeking out from underneath it. A slash of a scar cuts across his left cheek. His face is stubbled, round, and painfully kind. 

The second man shakes the collinder he is draining egg noodles in. His name is Hermann. “With which accent? English makes it easier.”

Costume: Hermann Gottlieb, forty-seven, short hair curling around the tops of a neatly trimmed undercut. A solid shade of dark brown, slightly less grey than his husband’s. He has warm, almost black eyes, feathered with stark laugh lines and a few freckles where they reach the apples of his cheeks. His clothing is similar to Newt’s, but better fitting to a point. A tight list of specific fabrics and cuts, chosen in a way that makes sense to him. He also wears a gold band on his wedding finger; there is a twin to Newt’s tattoo, but elsewhere. His socks are handknit by someone who loves him. The faintest of tiny scars lopes over the junction of his bottom lip and chin. He has hands that were made to be careful, precise, dedicated, and put all of that into loving.

A roll of the eyes from Newt. “Oh, so I can place all the blame on you guys, then.”

“Or you could learn to properly say the word.”

Newt snorts. “Nah. Being an Anglophobe is more fun. What’s the next thing?”

Hermann shakes the collinder again. “Tabasco. And salt and pepper. Use the last of the old bottle; we have another one in the pantry.”

Newt nods and opens the fridge, the dangling tails of a few kitschy magnets rattling against the door. The movement sends a stuck photo of Newt, hair maybe an inch shorter, surrounded by beaming teenagers holding various science projects and wearing novelty lab goggles, slipping down a centimeter. The door is too crowded for it to get very far.

He scans the shelf of sauces and jars on the inside, then plucks the bottle of Tabasco from the middle. Condensation beads all over the glass surface. Newt turns, his grip abandons him, and--

Sound effect: _smash_!

Sauce splatters everywhere, spraying syrupy red droplets across the floor and sink cabinets. Newt freezes solid. A deer staring down at the branch that just cracked beneath its hoof, listening for the sound of claws unsheathing. His hands are outstretched, fingers curled slightly inwards, trembling almost imperceptibly. 

Hermann drops the colander and spins around.

“I’m sorry.” The words crawl from Newt’s mouth like a cockroach running from light. His throat bobs with a tight swallow. “I’m sorry. I’m--”

“Newton,” Hermann says quietly, not even hesitating, “it’s alright.” He takes his cane from its position propped up against the oven door and moves forward slowly, carefully around the glass, hand showing itself before reaching for one of Newt’s. Their fingers wrap around each other instinctually but hesitant, obscuring Newt’s view of the glass. 

Another swallow. His throat is pale and tense. The tendon starkly outlined almost vibrates with the rest of him, strained. Breath skittering staccato.

Hermann’s voice is low and lilting, like a lullaby. “It’s alright. It was clearly an accident.” He smooths his thumb over the skin between Newt’s thumb and pointer finger back and forth, predictable. “You did nothing wrong; it could happen to anyone. Happened to me plenty of times. I’m not upset with you. I’m not angry.”

His thumb moves back over to the base of Newt’s so Hermann can squeeze his hand tightly. Finally, Newt looks up to meet his gaze.

“You’re not mad,” he says, soft but assured like memorized lines.

Hermann nods. “I’m not.”

“I’m sorry.”

“You don’t need to be.”

“Okay.” A necessary beat, then again, “I’m sorry.”

“I know,” Hermann says, the corners of his mouth turning up just enough to be reassuring. “But it’s a quick fix, and easy to clean, yes? We’ll just open the new bottle and use it tonight.”

Newt nods his head mechanically. “Right. Right, yeah.” 

The words are spoken in a way that betrays the effort it takes to form them. He sucks in a deep breath through his mouth and blows it out in a practiced way. To himself, loud enough that Hermann can hear if he wants to, 

“You’re not mad at me.”

“I am certainly not,” Hermann affirms. “Now, let’s get this cleaned up and get back to dinner. Would you fetch me the broom and the dustpan?”

“Yeah,” Newt says, voice a little less flat this time, “sure.”

Hermann lets go of his hand with a final squeeze and returns to his place at the counter, glancing aside every few seconds un-subtlety. Newt gives his hands a jerky shake, a few drops of condensation flying from his fingertips, and pushes out another puff of air. He rolls back his shoulders; there’s a faint _pop_. 

The hall closet is out the kitchen doorway and to the left, with a door that squeaks slightly when pulled past halfway open. Newt takes the dustpan and broom, leaving the closet door ajar, and returns to the kitchen and the sharp spread of glass. There remains a tightness to his shoulders, forced down, posture straight. Hermann sees him and smiles.

“I’ll sweep,” he says, “if you don’t mind, and you can get all the large pieces?”

He puts down the ring of measuring spoons and holds out a hand for the dustpan and broom. “Right, yeah, of course,” agrees Newt. His posture becomes almost natural. 

He passes them to Hermann and carefully, reminded these days of middle-aged joints and a body that demands recognition and attention, gets down on his hands and knees. Halfway before his hand reaches the first shard, Hermann makes a startled noise.

“What are you doing?”

The question is sharp, insistent, and Newt freezes again. His expression is more confused than panicked until Hermann bends down, opens the cabinet beneath the sink, and pulls out a pair of blue rubber dishwashing gloves. Hermann’s brow creases.

“You’ll cut your hands,” he says, both in explanation and assurance. “Here.”

He hands them to Newt, who takes them and slides them on with little friction. Newt picks up the shard he had been reaching for, then begins to find and gather the other large pieces. Hermann watches him closely, a little protective.

Newt places a piece into the palm of his opposite hand. “Sorry, again.”

“It was an accident,” Hermann says like someone who also needs this ritual. Newt presses his lips together. 

“I know. But I stillー”

“You don’t need to add a caveat, you know.” Hermann takes his cane in his other hand and shifts his weight to it. “You can simply have made a mistake. It happens.”

Newt sighs. “They never feel like just mistakes anymore.”

A beat. Hermann tries for a smile. “How lucky, then, that you have me to remind you.”

Newt takes the bait and returns the grin with his own. “Always have. Remember the time I misspelled ‘prevalent’ on a joint report and you went off about American English for like, two hours?”

“Don’t be ridiculous.” Hermann sniffs. “I would never waste my time thinking about that mess for so long.” He pauses, maintaining the charade. “Half an hour at most.”

Newt’s grin quirks further upwards to the left. “Y’know, you said that about me, once.” Hermann snorts.

“I was absolutely lying. You know that.”

“Yeah, of course I was lying too. You were taking up half the space in my brain even before we Drifted.”

He gathers up the last of the pieces and stands; then, opening the trash can with his foot, lets them fall in. He returns to his knees before Hermann hands him the dustpan, beginning to sweep. 

The bits of glass clack against the plastic of the dustpan with each smooth swing of Hermann’s arms. “How romantic.” he says, clearly finding it so despite the humor in his voice. “Plotting my downfall?”

“Yeah, sure,” says Newt dryly, “and the wedding flowers while I was at it.” A beat. “Lavender.”

Hermann’s expression blossoms into one both incredulous and delighted. His mouth drops open in surprise. “You did _not_.”

Newt lets out a low, bubbling laugh, shaking his head. “I didn’t know! I just thought they would smell nice!”

“Vanessa had a bouquet of lavender. She thought it was hilarious. They did smell lovely.” he admits.

Newt chuckles and moves the dustpan. “Yeah, over the smell of steam coming out of your dad’s ears.”

“Wonderfully aromatic.” Hermann checks the ground, scanning for any more bits of glass. When none appears, he nods once. “I think we’re alright. Can you clean up the spill, and I’ll start tossing the noodles?”

“Sure,” Newt replies, and stands to carry the dustpan over to the trash can and dump it. He pulls off the gloves and drops them on the kitchen counter, then pulls a wad of paper towels off of the roll hanging from the underside of the cookware shelf. With his free hand, he reopens the cabinet beneath the sink and tosses the gloves in, pulls out a bottle of cleaner with a label touting its revolutionary non-toxicity, and sprays the sauce-splattered floor. Newt lowers himself again and begins to wipe away the bright trails of red.

Hermann sets his cane aside and pulls another bowl on the counter closer to begin adding ingredients. He lets the silence stretch out for a moment, knowing Newt is forming his words at the pace he needs to. When he finally speaks, Hermann tilts his head to show he’s listening.

Newt folds a section of the paper towels over and wipes away another bit of sauce. “Thanks for always being so… I dunno, good about this.” He bites his bottom lip. “I know it’s weird.”

“It’s not ‘weird,’” Hermann says matter-of-factly, “it’s psychology. Instinct. Your brain will train itself out of it eventually.”

“Yeah, logically,” Newt bobs his head as he speaks, “but I feel like you’re living with a neurotic-prey animal sometimes. It’s all lines and platitudes.”

Hermann’s brow furrows, and he looks back over his shoulder. “Do you not want me to--?”

“No, no, they work,” Newt cuts him off, holding out a hand to stop him. “I just figured you’d be tired of saying the same thing every time I… y’know. Panic.”

Hermann makes a noncommittal noise. “I personally find consistency to be quite calming, actually.” He gestures with a measuring spoon, adding, “And it’s not as if you haven’t done the same.”

Newt rolls his eyes, agreeing, “Man, I wish your dad was still alive so I could pull some fake-evil alien bullshit and freak him out.” He tilts his head slightly to the left, thinking. “Or punch him in the face. Either works.”

“I won’t say the idea isn’t appealing.” Hermann adds the chopped clove of garlic, letting the tension in the room continue to dissipate. He waits to add the half an onion, another second more, then begins, “Newton, you know it’s not a problem for me, yes?”

Newt chews on his bottom lip as he finishes wiping the last of the sauce, focusing on how to reply. He returns the bottle to its place under the sink, stands, and moves towards the garbage can. As he throws the paper towel away, he gestures, “Okay, technically yes. Technically I know you love me, and you wanna help, and it helps you too. But…”

“Instinct,” Hermann finishes. Newt inclines his head to indicate agreement.

“Yeah. I think I’m still stuck in the atonement phase.”

Hermann raises an eyebrow. “Which one? There’s a variety.”

“I dunno,” he shrugs. “We went to service last Saturday, and I think I felt like I was talking to someone.” Newt sighs, running his clean hand through his hair. “But how do you even apologize to God for letting aliens into your brain that tried to destroy the world?”

Hermann’s grip tightens on the rim of the bowl. His lips thin briefly. “You didn’tー” he starts, but Newt holds up a hand.

“Okay, Hermann? Hey. Can I justー?” There’s a beat of silence. Newt’s fingers stay splayed out in a “stop” gesture. Hermann closes his mouth, takes in a breath through his nose, then nods. Newt lowers his hand. “I need you to understand that it was just the tiniest bit my fault. Like, I need you to let me own up to that.”

“How is that even possible?” Hermann says in a tight, clipped voice.

“My absolutely stellar coping skills?” Newt replies flatly. Off Hermann’s look, he continues, “No, seriously. They started the crash, they were the gravity, but it’s not like I did anything to try and correct the course. I mean,” he says, shrugging, “I had the workbooks. The Shatterdome had a psych specialist. It wasn’t inevitable.”

Hermann sets his spoon down to face Newt, posture straightening into one that preludes self-righteousness. His breath puffs out his chest slightly. “You cannot hold yourself accountable for the-- the mental warfare of hyperintelligent aliensー”

“Right, you say that,” Newt interrupts, raising both hands in the same gesture as before, “but I did fuck up! I know you’re trying to help me, and yeah, okay, maybe you have a point, but there was still stuff that I could have done.” He counts off on his fingers, “I could have reached out to somebody for help, or gone to medical or a doctor or a therapist, or worked on actually taking my medsー which I know would have helped a lotー or a ton of things!” He sighs, rubbing a hand against his face. “I had this stupid mindset of being all ‘woe is me nobody can think I’m crazy’, and trying to protect everyone by, somehow, handling an entire alien hive mind attacking my brain all by myself? Like anybody could do that on their own! I thought I was some brave, tragic hero when really I was just stupid and selfish and scared. And instead of doing the hard thing— telling someone what was happening and that I was, y’know, having a breakdown, and letting people help me fix it, I let things get totally out of control because I thought it was all on me. Am I mad people didn’t eventually notice ‘I’ had done a complete one-eighty and was acting like a totally different person?” He throws his hands up in frustration. “Yeah! But I’m not blameless here.” 

“But Iー” Hermann stammers, grasping, “But none of us noticedー”

“Because I tried my fucking damndest to make sure you didn’t!” Newt exclaims, voice cracking slightly as it rises. “Before I realized what was happeningー when I thought it was just a run-of-the-mill mental health meltdownー I was terrified that if anyone saw how bad I was, they’dー” he pauses, swallows hard, then admits, “y’know, I’m just gonna fucking say it: I was scared they’d institutionalize me. And you’ve been in hospitals Hermann, you know how bad they are, but that shit is a whole different ball game.” A long beat as Newt’s gaze drops down to his feet, and he pushes another hand through his hair. A heavy rush of air is forced out shakily through his nose. “Now I know that was probably the best thing they could have done.”

“You shouldn’t have had to be scared,” Hermann says quietly, eyes like a gentle knife. Newt looks up and away.

“But I was. And I made a bad call, and that is my wrong choice. If you love me,” he says slowly, finally meeting Hermann’s eyes, “you will let me live with that.”

A stretch of silence long enough to be uncomfortable for the both of them, but necessary. The heater thrums steadily in the background, almost imperceptible if not for the lack of noise or movement. Somewhere above them, the neighbors upstairs slam a door. Hermann unclenches his fists finger by dug-in finger.

“You would tell me, then,” he says. “If, aliens or not, things were getting bad.” Newt glances away again, and the tension eases minutely as Hermann steps forward. He gingerly puts a hand on Newt’s upper arm. “I don’t need to be able to read your mind anymore to know when there’s something you’re not telling me.” More silence, so he says firmer, “Newton.”

“Okay,” Newt relents, one hand raising only at the wrist. “It’s… it’s kind of a mix.”

“Of?”

Newt presses his lips together, thinking. “It’s our first Chanukah together,” he starts. “And yeah it’s not even a big holidayー it’s not Yom, it’s not Rosh, but,” he swallows, “it still feels like some kind of shoe should be dropping. Not necessarily a bad one, justー a shoe. Because, okay, it’s really really stupid.”

“It’s not,” Hermann says quickly. Newt snorts.

“Oh yeah? Wait for it. So you know how Chanukah’s whole thing is faith? Like, having faith, celebrating that that faith paid off, remembering that it’s a good thing to have?” He looks away, then back, giving a little half-shrug. “It sort of reminds me of us. A lot.”

“I can see that,” Hermann says, his voice even in a way that Newt knows means he’s focusing more on listening than speaking. “You trusted that I was going to help you. I trusted that you were still there. And I did, and you were. But it was terrifying.”

“Yeah. I mean, after everything they put you through, it was _not_ easy to believe that you actually still cared about me, much less wanted to put yourself through hell to drag my ass out.” Newt makes a motion with his pointer finger to indicate the action.

“And I didn’t know if you saw that fight as worth it,” Hermann confesses. “You were returning to an uncertain world that had its doubts about you, its own problems, and, the way I saw it, no clear place to start rebuilding.”

With casual yet utter conviction, Newt says, “Well that was you.”

Hermann smiles. “I didn’t believe it until you told me. And even then you’ve done much of it on your own.”

“Never hurts to have some help.” He realizes after a beat, then grins back. “Hey. Lesson learned.”

“So Chanukah,” Hermann prompts.

Back on track, Newt nods. “So Chanukah. It reminds me of how scary it is to believe in something. I had fantasies, that’s how the brain works, but I don’t know if I ever really grasped the idea of you forgiving me until you did. The words flipped a switch, I guess.”

“Sometimes I feel like the apology is more for my own benefit,” Hermann says, folding his hands over and under each other in one rotation before letting them fall still. Newt points a finger at him to indicate Hermann has made a good point.

“Well that’s the most important part: admitting that you fucked up. And the easiest to get stuck in, but that’s what reality checks are for.” He winces slightly, looking away. “Except I have way more people to apologize to.”

“Then what was the point of taking _my_ last name?” Hermann asks wryly. Newt fidgets with the hem of his shirt embarrassedly, cheeks pinkening.

“I didn’t want to be,” he swallows, “that version of myself anymore, if that makes sense. I wanted to be someone better.”

“Such as?” Hermann prompts. 

Newt gives him a lopsided smile. “Your husband?”

Hermann’s expression goes blank for a moment, the meaning of the words clearly taking their time to settle. Then, in a single movement, he takes both of Newt’s hands and leans in to kiss him deeply, bringing them up to rest against Newt’s chest. Some sour cream smudges on Newt’s shirt, but he only presses closer until they are chest to chest, rising and falling back and forth in reciprocal rhythm to each other, always touching at even the smallest area. 

Hermann pulls away, flushed, eyes large and dark and shining. “And I am very lucky to be yours.” He kisses Newt’s forehead, letting his lips linger there and breathing in the scent of shared soap and presence. “We’re a better version of ourselves every day,” he says against the warm skin. “That’s simply what being a person is like.”

“Do you think I’m better?” Newt mumbles against his chin. “Than I was even before Iー” he hesitates. “Do you think the me before them was as good as I’m gonna get?”

Hermann tilts his head. “Are you voicing your fear or really asking me?”

“Both,” he clarifies. “-Ish.”

Hermann lets out a sigh into the space between them. “Alright,” he says the same way he explains a particular line of reasoning for an equation. “I think the fact that the person you were back then hid a mental health crisis from the people who cared about him until he was in a very bad situation, and that you’re here now being honest and telling me what you need,well that answers the question, doesn’t it?”

Newt snorts. “It would be great if I hadn’t had to learn this the hard way.”

“It would be very good, yes,” he agrees. “But you’ve always been quite alright at working with what you have.”

He kisses Newt’s forehead again and returns to the stove, holding out a hand. Newt can tell, through the wafer-thin thread of the Drift still running between them, and the knowing that comes with loving a person in that way for that long, what Hermann is asking for. He opens another cabinet to pull out a new bottle of hot sauce, this one of a different brand, and twists the lid open just enough.

“Thank you,” says Hermann as he takes it. An idea comes to him, appearing on his face, and he lifts the bottle slightly to make a point. “See?” he tells Newt. “Not the same as the old one, but just as good. Might even be better.”

A snicker leaps from between Newt’s lips. “Oh, that is so corny. No wonder you hate poetry, you’re shit at it.”

Hermann sniffs dramatically. “Well, I’m certainly compensating elsewhere.”

“Yeah you are.” says Newt, waggling his eyebrows. Hermann rolls his eyes.

“You’re horrible. Find me the salt and pepper.”

Newt places a hand on his hip, raising an eyebrow “Are you actually gonna use enough this time?” He mimics Hermann’s eye roll. “British people.”

“You’re American and Berliner; I could never use enough salt,” Hermann shoots back. Newt chooses to ignore this, coming up behind him to rest his chin on Hermann’s shoulder.

“Mm. It smells good already, so I forgive you.”

“Lucky me,” Hermann murmurs, half-sarcastic and half-not. The kitchen smells like flour and garlic and tang, premature flavors in the back of the throat waiting to burst on the tongue. The sun on the floor is burnished gold, ripe caramel, lazy and safe. Their socked feet brush against each other.

Here is the story: we (oh this is a we, never forget that) had faith because there was no other choice, and we tell that story down and down and down to the people that need reminding that the light at the end of the tunnel can burn for longer than you think. 

And we falter, through words and deeds and fear that becomes stronger than faith, however briefly. We hurt the ones we love. But we believe that if we make amends and show them we are trying, then they will one day trust in us again. We use our time and our actions to become better regardless. It is here on Earth that matters, because here is where we are with others.

The story is that we keep telling it to those we love, to those we want to hold close through our words and the belief we share. The belief that we do not know how everything turns out, if everything will be happy, but we have our belief in each other. We believe how they did so back through the ages, from light to light, to that first wick that burned to oil and reminded us that our story is only just beginning.


End file.
